Each year the local primary school holds a Christmas Fair and parents are asked to donate raffle prizes and bake cakes for a sale to raise funds for the school fund, Save the Children, Pudsey Bears eye operation or some other worthy cause.
The raffle provides an excellent opportunity to get rid of all the soaps and candles and unwanted tat that we have won at the raffle over the last few years, which seems to be every bodies idea - I swear the prizes are the same each year. I don't mean identical, I mean the actual items. It's like you don't win them outright, just the right to take them home and keep them in the attic for 12 months.
Anyway, to the cake stall. This provides Jenny with the opportunity to show off her culinary skills, and she always bakes a smashing cake which I am forbidden from eating. Actually she normally bakes two smashing cakes, because I am forbidden from eating the first one only once she has discovered that I have already helped myself to a slice. "That was for the school fair - now I'll have to make another." Not all parents are as supportive of this, and I seriously believe the same rules apply as above. Either someone is making identical cakes every year, or there is one particularly sturdy looking Christmas Cake which appears every year and always goes unsold. Maybe it's a display only model, made out of Plaster of Paris. It certainly looks like it and it never, ever sells.
Anyway this year Jenny decided to make some Gingerbread men as well. These are always popular with the children. However, whether it was a particularly dry mix, or a problem with the cutter she used, almost 50% of the finished product lost either an arm or a leg, or in some cases one or more of both during the baking process. Ever practical I suggested that instead of the usual three buttons and a candy walking stick she decorated them in Army Camouflage with prosthetic limbs to support "Help for Heroes." This, she said, was inappropriate humour. Someone might take offence. I disagree. Army Servicemen and women have the same black humour we have in the Emergency Services, You have to have. It;s a defence mechanism, and if you don't have it you go mad. End of story. That is why despite training school banning the use of nicknames, because it might cause offence, the first thing that happens when a new face arrives on shift is that he or she is given a nickname. It's all a part of being a team, fitting in and supporting each other. Literally, if they only have one leg. So I doubt that any serviceman would take offence. No it would be the usual bandwagonners taking offence at the idea that someone would take offence. But since those people wouldn't attend the Christmas Fair for fear of offending non Christians it wouldn't have been a problem anyway. And in any case they are far to busy staying away from work because it snowed ten days ago, and they have to drive 30 miles to County Hall to complain about the traffic congestion and why the gritters haven't been out clearing the roads that they have blocked with their other car, the 4x4 that they abandoned in the carriageway because they didn't know how to turn the traction control off or lock the differential and couldn't understand why it had skidded into the snowdrift in the first place, because it's four wheel drive you know, and it must be faulty I'm going to sue Land Rover.
Errrrr. I've gone off topic now, It must be gingerbread poisoning. Only another 32 paraplegics to eat.
Thursday, 9 December 2010
Monday, 6 December 2010
Land Rover defender
This should have gone with the last blog. The video doesn't shwo the slope that well, and you can ignore the commentary which suggests I'm stuck - that was a temporary pause to change gear. the Land Rover was eating it in low ratio first gear, so I stopped momentarily to go for second. We pulled that bus all the way back tot gritted road.
Landrover Defender - a modern Dinosaur or a miracle of engineering?
For the last 3 nights I have had the somewhat dubious pleasure of driving a Land Rover Defender, due to the inclement weather conditions, and a bit of snow causing chaos on the highways. Our local authorities in England, renown for being a cold and wet country, did not expect snow in winter, and as usual were caught out but the sudden drop in temperatures and a fall of between 4 and 12 inches of snow, depending on where in the county you live and whether you use a mans tape measure or a ladies one. Hardly surprising, as this is the same Government that is caught out when Christmas comes around on the 25th December every year.
Anyway, back to the main news. The Land Rover Defender is based on the original Land Rover series one, a 1947 design and has changed little since. Land Rover are the second oldest 4x4 manufacturer in the world, Jeep (allegedly) being the first. Jeep wasn't the brand name at the time of course, it was Willys who invented the "Overland" as a military vehicle for use by the US Army as a General Purpose (GP) utility vehicle, and it was the GI's who nickname it the Jeep. Ironically many used in WW2 were made by FORD under licence, as Willys couldn't make them quick enough. Willys would later be bought out by the Chrysler Corporation, and the JEEP brand was officially born.
Meanwhile in the immediate post war years just after peace had broken out in the UK, a certain Maurice Wilkes, who just happened to be the Cheif Designer at Rover, bought a military surplus Jeep for use on his farm in Anglesey. After seeing it's useful potential on the farm he decided he could build something similar, and the LAND ROVER was born. Using a steel chassis but aluminium body panels, not to save weight, but because steel was in short supply he stuffed a Rover engine up front and built a prototype in 1947. A further 48 prototypes followed for appraisal during which he quickly realised that farmers couldn't get enough of them. They loved the idea of a car they could pull a plough with, take hay into the hill pastures then hose down and take the family to church in on Sunday. A legend was born, full production followed and eventually Land Rover begat Range Rover and finally young mums had a vehicle capable of taking toddlers to nursery schools in leafy urban Surrey.
The Range Rover was born in 1968, and developed or rather evolved over the years into the bling encrusted, tinted windowed chrome behemoth now used by Puff Daddy lookalikes to sell drugs on council housing estates. Meanwhile the forces of motoring evolution seemingly gave up on the series Land Rover. Oh for sure, the series one gave way to the almost identical series 2, only really distinguished because the headlights were moved to where they could be seen by other road users, and to a position where they could light the road ahead. And the engines got a little bit bigger over the years, and various variants were produced with long, short, lightweight, 6 wheel drive, amphibious, desert, ambulance and forward control being just a few of the options. In fact so many variations have been made that in truth no-one owns a standard Land Rover. They have probably never built one. In theory they probably make one, but the haphazard approach to assembly (and I'll come back to this later) means they are all unique.
Now to upset real Land Rover aficionados. The Defender is slow, agricultural, handles badly, has awful brakes, poor performance and drinks more than Oliver Reed, George Best and Paul Gasgoine on a bender. Some say it is called the Defender because it is the darling of the British Army, a proud defender of our nation, exemplary in it's military service. This may be so. It is certainly not a footballing reference, but if it were it would be inaccurate even then. It's no centre forward, definitely not a striker, and if my experience is anything to go by not a Defender either. It is in fact the goalkeeper. As a kid, teams were picked by the two Games Masters favorites, and I stood in the line with others to get picked. I was always last alongside the kid with glasses as thick as milk bottle bottoms, who had a note from his mum excusing him from sports but allowed him to play non competitive chess. Consequently, I would be reluctantly picked after him and always, but always ended up in goal. My team would usually lose by around 7 goals to nil. I was not good at sports and neither is the Land Rover Goalkeeper - sorry Defender. In 1947 farmers were wowed by it's rugged looks and performance, and it's clever 4 wheel drive system. But then they would also have been impressed by electricity, running water and those new fangled telephones. Some rural farmers would have been impressed with the idea of a horseless carriage in the first place. For them it was almost witchcraft.
So wind the clock on almost 63 years and what do we have sitting in the space where my Volvo normally sits? Essentially the very same Land Rover. And it looks good, except that it has clearly been rushed out of stores when the snow fell, and isn't kitted out yet. Land Rover have done their bit, with a full length roof rack and manually directional spot lamps on all four corners, and in typical Land Rover shoddy build quality style they have failed to connect the alarm system to the central locking. Or maybe it didn't have any such creature comforts - it certainly didn't have anything else, except a handy winch on the front. Our workshop had nailed a couple of blue lights on the roof and slapped some battenburg chequers on the sides, although the blue lights were on loose wiring with a plug to go in the cigarette lighter socket, and there was no siren. Or Police radio. Or any radio for that matter. At first I was dubious that the "60" registration plate related to 2010, I thought it might be "60" for 1960, but the odometer (LCD backlit) seemed to confirm this was a new model.
Climbing in to the Defender causes it's own problems with a stab vest and utility belt on, but adjusting the seat reduced the task from painfully impossible to just grossly uncomfortable. The seats are of course fully adjustable in a 1950's sort of way. They go forward and backward, although neither position gives any advantage, The cabin is so tight that if you sit forward your knees will prevent the steering wheel being used, whilst if you go backwards the B post obstructs your side view. In theory the seat has a reclining mechanism, but then anyone in the back complains that you have cut off their air supply.
Conventionally the drivers seat is placed behind the steering wheel. Not so in the Land Rover, It is offset to the left, and you sit at an angle to it so that your right elbow is in contact with the window. The pedals meanwhile are off to the right. This leads to a most interesting driving position, which almost had been calling for a no win no fee injury lawyer before I even got started. But then that wasn't likely, as the ignition switch had been cunningly hidden. I eventually located it on the left side of the steering column, where trial and error eventually got the key in place, not easy operating left handed, and with the key operating the wrong way from what one would expect the engine eventually roared into life. Next to test all the lights etc - I have driven Land Rovers before and have knowledge of their LUCAS electrical systems (LUCAS, the Prince of Darkness, being an Acronym for Loose, Usually Corroded, Always Sparking) There was a moment of pure nostalgia as I recognised the switchgear as being part Austin Maestro and mostly Morris Marina. The flashers flashed, the horn horn, the wipers wipe and the headlight switch couldn't be found. Much fumbling in the dark commenced (reminding me of another experience in a Morris Marina, but let's not go there) and eventually a sort of elongated toggle switch was identified hiding in front of the ignition switch on the side of the steering column cover. I was later to discover that with the lights on it is impossible to operate the ignition switch. This presumably is a safety feature, to prevent you switching the engine off and leaving the lights on - preventing a flat battery. Clever thinking in the 1940's I suppose.
Having started the engine I checked through the ergonomic scatter gun approach to the remaining switchgear. It seems that stuff is thrown at the dashboard, and wherever it lands it is screwed down and wired in.
I will confess that the last Land Rover I drove had the red and yellow topped levers to lock the differential and change to low ratio, so this one was an improvement with a small lever the size of a normal gearstick to combine both functions. The gearstick itself looked like it could double as a tyre wrench, and so long that the passenger was nearer to change some of the gears than the driver was.
Having found a gear it was time to move off, but where in the name of all that is holy is the handbrake? The Volvo has an electrically operated handbrake, with a switch on the dash. Had Land Rover fitted something similar? And if so, where was the switch amongst the retro cluttered dash? And what was the awkward lump of metal threatening to bruise my left ankle....... aha a handbrake lever, mounted on the side of the transmission tunnel and right down low almost amongst the pedals. And which operates away from you, such that you have to lean down to release it, bumping your head against the steering wheel in the process.
And on to the driving experience itself. In the days before Lesbian sex, and airplane crashes Emmerdale used to have a Farm, not just in the title, but an actual plot of land, where Jack and Joe Sugden used to drive around in a Lad Rover, always with the window wound down, and Joe, always used to hook his hand round on the outside of the door to open it using the external handle from inside. I used to wonder why. Was it some sort of Yorkshire Young Farmers Youth Cool thing? No. It turns out that it is physically impossible to turn right unless the drivers window is open. So I imagine young Joe was not cool, but bloody cold, driving around in rural North Yorkshire, as the heater is less than effective. And the whole thing with the door opening? Same reason. The cabin is so cramped that your right leg is pressed up against the door and it it impossible to operate either the window winder or the door release. Many a novice Land Rover pilot must have become trapped on lonely moorlands because he failed to wind the window down before closing the door. now just to make it clear I am neither John Cleese nor Jeremey Clarkson, although I am a shade over 6 foot. Nor am I of Bernard Manning proportions, although I am arguably mildly overweight, but certainly not bordering on obese. It would be reasonable to expect that I would be able to get a comfortable driving position. My left ankle is painfully in contact with the handbrake, my left arm needs to be around a foot longer to operate the handbrake comfortable, whilst my right knee is in contact with the door panel and my right arm could do with several more elbows so I can turn the wheel without the window having to be open. I presume that in the immediate post war years the demographic would have been different. Obviously people were shorter and slimmer due to rationing, and I daresay a fair proportion returning from the war had less arms and legs and would have fitted easier. But is it too much to ask that they change the car to the modern driver? I was in fear of crashing because even a minor impact was likely to leave me trapped in the drivers seat, but I needn't have worried. In the event it didn't need a crash, when I later tried to get out I was trapped anyway, by a combination of my stab vest, utility belt cramp and repetitive strain fatigue.
A minor impact seemed inevitable at some point because the steering wheel has little or no effect on what the road wheels do even on a dry road, never mind on ice. To experience the sensation of steering a Land Rover you need a packet of Birds instant custard, a glass jug and a wooden spoon. Mix up the custard, then without holding the jug stir it with the wooden spoon. Eventually the glass jug begins to turn as well, as the friction between the custard and the sides of the jug build up. This is almost, but not quite exactly how the steering on the Land Rover must work. By the time the message has got to the wheels that you have turned the steering wheel you have turned it back the other way.
On the road the Land Rover makes even less sense. This one has a six speed gearbox (arguably 12 with the low ratio set up) but only three were needed because at anything greater than 50 mph it becomes frighteningly unstable. And that was on the cleared and gritted roads. On taking to the side streets the four wheel drive offered a surefootedness that the road tyres denied. Frozen rutted tracks meant that whilst the Landrover could go anywhere it simply did go anywhere. Often sideways. Holding it in first gear on tickover meant it made very safe and steady progress, but with the impression that the frost was overtaking me. Putting any revs on at all causes the Diesel engine to chug and surge, making for a very jerky and rough ride - my passenger was complaining of whiplash. Dropping into second causes the car to begin to run away, the engine suddenly becomes all eager, and you are fighting for control again. Sadly this eagerness disappears when you hit the tarmac again. I don't know how many horsepowers the Landrover has, but it often felt and sounded like whilst they were all there, they weren't necessarily all pulling in the same direction. At speed, changing gear caused the engine to make a different noise, but that was all it did. On a deserted snow packed car park however i was able to unlease the full potential of that asthmatic diesel engine with a 3 second powerslide with all four wheels spinning and shouting "POWER!" in my best Jeremey Clarkson impression. Had I had the advantage of a stop motion video camera it would have looked bloody impressive. As it was it probably looked slightly ridiculous given that I was doing no more than 5 miles per hour. But it did prove that under all the noise the engine was capable of sending power to the axles, even if you did need an arctic continent to make use of it.
And talking of noises - it was like having the BBC radiophonic workshop in the back. On a wet and gritted road it sounded like someone was using a power shower in the back, whilst on snow and ice it produced a sound akin to towing a large roll of bacofoil dragging along behind us. This was intermittently broken by the sound of being peppered with air pellets from a rapid fire repeating air rifle. The diesel engine meant that conversation, and with all this going on there was a lot to talk about, had to be conducted at a mild shout.
My passenger of course did not believe that this driving experience could be as bad as I was making out - right up until he took over later in the shift, when after several stalls i pointed out that he was using the brake pedal as the throttle and that the accelarator pedal was several inches to the right. How I laughed as he banged his elbows and knees. My head hurt I laughed so much. He who laughs last drove first it seems.
But, and this is a big but, for all it's short comings, and there are many, the Landrover refused to be beaten. For towing other cars, vans, 4 x 4's and houses out of snowy holes and rutted tracks it was unbeatable. Over a challenging 10 hour route that would have sent the Top Gear team home with their tailpipes between their tyres, the plucky Brit ploughed on through everything the weather could throw at it. Japanese pretenders, German Upstarts, and Korean wannabees fell by the wayside, victims of modern frivolities like ABS and traction stability control. Even the Landys spiritual father, the Jeep was espied abandoned at one point. Our own BMW X5's faltered on the snowpacked streets, despite the Germans having raped Landrover, stolen the technology and sold the smoking remnants to the Indians they couldn't match that 65 year old classic icon. It just refused to give up.
And as much as I hated the experience I fell in love with the Land Rover too. I know it will cripple me both emotionally, physically and financially, but I want one so much it hurts.
I don't normally write my blogs this long, but I thought it might catch attention as the worlds longest wanted used Land Rover ad.
Anyway, back to the main news. The Land Rover Defender is based on the original Land Rover series one, a 1947 design and has changed little since. Land Rover are the second oldest 4x4 manufacturer in the world, Jeep (allegedly) being the first. Jeep wasn't the brand name at the time of course, it was Willys who invented the "Overland" as a military vehicle for use by the US Army as a General Purpose (GP) utility vehicle, and it was the GI's who nickname it the Jeep. Ironically many used in WW2 were made by FORD under licence, as Willys couldn't make them quick enough. Willys would later be bought out by the Chrysler Corporation, and the JEEP brand was officially born.
Meanwhile in the immediate post war years just after peace had broken out in the UK, a certain Maurice Wilkes, who just happened to be the Cheif Designer at Rover, bought a military surplus Jeep for use on his farm in Anglesey. After seeing it's useful potential on the farm he decided he could build something similar, and the LAND ROVER was born. Using a steel chassis but aluminium body panels, not to save weight, but because steel was in short supply he stuffed a Rover engine up front and built a prototype in 1947. A further 48 prototypes followed for appraisal during which he quickly realised that farmers couldn't get enough of them. They loved the idea of a car they could pull a plough with, take hay into the hill pastures then hose down and take the family to church in on Sunday. A legend was born, full production followed and eventually Land Rover begat Range Rover and finally young mums had a vehicle capable of taking toddlers to nursery schools in leafy urban Surrey.
The Range Rover was born in 1968, and developed or rather evolved over the years into the bling encrusted, tinted windowed chrome behemoth now used by Puff Daddy lookalikes to sell drugs on council housing estates. Meanwhile the forces of motoring evolution seemingly gave up on the series Land Rover. Oh for sure, the series one gave way to the almost identical series 2, only really distinguished because the headlights were moved to where they could be seen by other road users, and to a position where they could light the road ahead. And the engines got a little bit bigger over the years, and various variants were produced with long, short, lightweight, 6 wheel drive, amphibious, desert, ambulance and forward control being just a few of the options. In fact so many variations have been made that in truth no-one owns a standard Land Rover. They have probably never built one. In theory they probably make one, but the haphazard approach to assembly (and I'll come back to this later) means they are all unique.
Now to upset real Land Rover aficionados. The Defender is slow, agricultural, handles badly, has awful brakes, poor performance and drinks more than Oliver Reed, George Best and Paul Gasgoine on a bender. Some say it is called the Defender because it is the darling of the British Army, a proud defender of our nation, exemplary in it's military service. This may be so. It is certainly not a footballing reference, but if it were it would be inaccurate even then. It's no centre forward, definitely not a striker, and if my experience is anything to go by not a Defender either. It is in fact the goalkeeper. As a kid, teams were picked by the two Games Masters favorites, and I stood in the line with others to get picked. I was always last alongside the kid with glasses as thick as milk bottle bottoms, who had a note from his mum excusing him from sports but allowed him to play non competitive chess. Consequently, I would be reluctantly picked after him and always, but always ended up in goal. My team would usually lose by around 7 goals to nil. I was not good at sports and neither is the Land Rover Goalkeeper - sorry Defender. In 1947 farmers were wowed by it's rugged looks and performance, and it's clever 4 wheel drive system. But then they would also have been impressed by electricity, running water and those new fangled telephones. Some rural farmers would have been impressed with the idea of a horseless carriage in the first place. For them it was almost witchcraft.
So wind the clock on almost 63 years and what do we have sitting in the space where my Volvo normally sits? Essentially the very same Land Rover. And it looks good, except that it has clearly been rushed out of stores when the snow fell, and isn't kitted out yet. Land Rover have done their bit, with a full length roof rack and manually directional spot lamps on all four corners, and in typical Land Rover shoddy build quality style they have failed to connect the alarm system to the central locking. Or maybe it didn't have any such creature comforts - it certainly didn't have anything else, except a handy winch on the front. Our workshop had nailed a couple of blue lights on the roof and slapped some battenburg chequers on the sides, although the blue lights were on loose wiring with a plug to go in the cigarette lighter socket, and there was no siren. Or Police radio. Or any radio for that matter. At first I was dubious that the "60" registration plate related to 2010, I thought it might be "60" for 1960, but the odometer (LCD backlit) seemed to confirm this was a new model.
Climbing in to the Defender causes it's own problems with a stab vest and utility belt on, but adjusting the seat reduced the task from painfully impossible to just grossly uncomfortable. The seats are of course fully adjustable in a 1950's sort of way. They go forward and backward, although neither position gives any advantage, The cabin is so tight that if you sit forward your knees will prevent the steering wheel being used, whilst if you go backwards the B post obstructs your side view. In theory the seat has a reclining mechanism, but then anyone in the back complains that you have cut off their air supply.
Conventionally the drivers seat is placed behind the steering wheel. Not so in the Land Rover, It is offset to the left, and you sit at an angle to it so that your right elbow is in contact with the window. The pedals meanwhile are off to the right. This leads to a most interesting driving position, which almost had been calling for a no win no fee injury lawyer before I even got started. But then that wasn't likely, as the ignition switch had been cunningly hidden. I eventually located it on the left side of the steering column, where trial and error eventually got the key in place, not easy operating left handed, and with the key operating the wrong way from what one would expect the engine eventually roared into life. Next to test all the lights etc - I have driven Land Rovers before and have knowledge of their LUCAS electrical systems (LUCAS, the Prince of Darkness, being an Acronym for Loose, Usually Corroded, Always Sparking) There was a moment of pure nostalgia as I recognised the switchgear as being part Austin Maestro and mostly Morris Marina. The flashers flashed, the horn horn, the wipers wipe and the headlight switch couldn't be found. Much fumbling in the dark commenced (reminding me of another experience in a Morris Marina, but let's not go there) and eventually a sort of elongated toggle switch was identified hiding in front of the ignition switch on the side of the steering column cover. I was later to discover that with the lights on it is impossible to operate the ignition switch. This presumably is a safety feature, to prevent you switching the engine off and leaving the lights on - preventing a flat battery. Clever thinking in the 1940's I suppose.
Having started the engine I checked through the ergonomic scatter gun approach to the remaining switchgear. It seems that stuff is thrown at the dashboard, and wherever it lands it is screwed down and wired in.
I will confess that the last Land Rover I drove had the red and yellow topped levers to lock the differential and change to low ratio, so this one was an improvement with a small lever the size of a normal gearstick to combine both functions. The gearstick itself looked like it could double as a tyre wrench, and so long that the passenger was nearer to change some of the gears than the driver was.
Having found a gear it was time to move off, but where in the name of all that is holy is the handbrake? The Volvo has an electrically operated handbrake, with a switch on the dash. Had Land Rover fitted something similar? And if so, where was the switch amongst the retro cluttered dash? And what was the awkward lump of metal threatening to bruise my left ankle....... aha a handbrake lever, mounted on the side of the transmission tunnel and right down low almost amongst the pedals. And which operates away from you, such that you have to lean down to release it, bumping your head against the steering wheel in the process.
And on to the driving experience itself. In the days before Lesbian sex, and airplane crashes Emmerdale used to have a Farm, not just in the title, but an actual plot of land, where Jack and Joe Sugden used to drive around in a Lad Rover, always with the window wound down, and Joe, always used to hook his hand round on the outside of the door to open it using the external handle from inside. I used to wonder why. Was it some sort of Yorkshire Young Farmers Youth Cool thing? No. It turns out that it is physically impossible to turn right unless the drivers window is open. So I imagine young Joe was not cool, but bloody cold, driving around in rural North Yorkshire, as the heater is less than effective. And the whole thing with the door opening? Same reason. The cabin is so cramped that your right leg is pressed up against the door and it it impossible to operate either the window winder or the door release. Many a novice Land Rover pilot must have become trapped on lonely moorlands because he failed to wind the window down before closing the door. now just to make it clear I am neither John Cleese nor Jeremey Clarkson, although I am a shade over 6 foot. Nor am I of Bernard Manning proportions, although I am arguably mildly overweight, but certainly not bordering on obese. It would be reasonable to expect that I would be able to get a comfortable driving position. My left ankle is painfully in contact with the handbrake, my left arm needs to be around a foot longer to operate the handbrake comfortable, whilst my right knee is in contact with the door panel and my right arm could do with several more elbows so I can turn the wheel without the window having to be open. I presume that in the immediate post war years the demographic would have been different. Obviously people were shorter and slimmer due to rationing, and I daresay a fair proportion returning from the war had less arms and legs and would have fitted easier. But is it too much to ask that they change the car to the modern driver? I was in fear of crashing because even a minor impact was likely to leave me trapped in the drivers seat, but I needn't have worried. In the event it didn't need a crash, when I later tried to get out I was trapped anyway, by a combination of my stab vest, utility belt cramp and repetitive strain fatigue.
A minor impact seemed inevitable at some point because the steering wheel has little or no effect on what the road wheels do even on a dry road, never mind on ice. To experience the sensation of steering a Land Rover you need a packet of Birds instant custard, a glass jug and a wooden spoon. Mix up the custard, then without holding the jug stir it with the wooden spoon. Eventually the glass jug begins to turn as well, as the friction between the custard and the sides of the jug build up. This is almost, but not quite exactly how the steering on the Land Rover must work. By the time the message has got to the wheels that you have turned the steering wheel you have turned it back the other way.
On the road the Land Rover makes even less sense. This one has a six speed gearbox (arguably 12 with the low ratio set up) but only three were needed because at anything greater than 50 mph it becomes frighteningly unstable. And that was on the cleared and gritted roads. On taking to the side streets the four wheel drive offered a surefootedness that the road tyres denied. Frozen rutted tracks meant that whilst the Landrover could go anywhere it simply did go anywhere. Often sideways. Holding it in first gear on tickover meant it made very safe and steady progress, but with the impression that the frost was overtaking me. Putting any revs on at all causes the Diesel engine to chug and surge, making for a very jerky and rough ride - my passenger was complaining of whiplash. Dropping into second causes the car to begin to run away, the engine suddenly becomes all eager, and you are fighting for control again. Sadly this eagerness disappears when you hit the tarmac again. I don't know how many horsepowers the Landrover has, but it often felt and sounded like whilst they were all there, they weren't necessarily all pulling in the same direction. At speed, changing gear caused the engine to make a different noise, but that was all it did. On a deserted snow packed car park however i was able to unlease the full potential of that asthmatic diesel engine with a 3 second powerslide with all four wheels spinning and shouting "POWER!" in my best Jeremey Clarkson impression. Had I had the advantage of a stop motion video camera it would have looked bloody impressive. As it was it probably looked slightly ridiculous given that I was doing no more than 5 miles per hour. But it did prove that under all the noise the engine was capable of sending power to the axles, even if you did need an arctic continent to make use of it.
And talking of noises - it was like having the BBC radiophonic workshop in the back. On a wet and gritted road it sounded like someone was using a power shower in the back, whilst on snow and ice it produced a sound akin to towing a large roll of bacofoil dragging along behind us. This was intermittently broken by the sound of being peppered with air pellets from a rapid fire repeating air rifle. The diesel engine meant that conversation, and with all this going on there was a lot to talk about, had to be conducted at a mild shout.
My passenger of course did not believe that this driving experience could be as bad as I was making out - right up until he took over later in the shift, when after several stalls i pointed out that he was using the brake pedal as the throttle and that the accelarator pedal was several inches to the right. How I laughed as he banged his elbows and knees. My head hurt I laughed so much. He who laughs last drove first it seems.
But, and this is a big but, for all it's short comings, and there are many, the Landrover refused to be beaten. For towing other cars, vans, 4 x 4's and houses out of snowy holes and rutted tracks it was unbeatable. Over a challenging 10 hour route that would have sent the Top Gear team home with their tailpipes between their tyres, the plucky Brit ploughed on through everything the weather could throw at it. Japanese pretenders, German Upstarts, and Korean wannabees fell by the wayside, victims of modern frivolities like ABS and traction stability control. Even the Landys spiritual father, the Jeep was espied abandoned at one point. Our own BMW X5's faltered on the snowpacked streets, despite the Germans having raped Landrover, stolen the technology and sold the smoking remnants to the Indians they couldn't match that 65 year old classic icon. It just refused to give up.
And as much as I hated the experience I fell in love with the Land Rover too. I know it will cripple me both emotionally, physically and financially, but I want one so much it hurts.
I don't normally write my blogs this long, but I thought it might catch attention as the worlds longest wanted used Land Rover ad.
Monday, 29 November 2010
Life is like a box of ....... soap powder
Life is like a box of chocolates – so said Forest Gump. But Mine is more like a box of soap powder, I feel as though I’m living in a Soap Opera. Not one of these moderns ones with Sex, Lesbians and “issues that may have affected you” you understand, just a “gritty Northern drama.”
My experiences of the last 24 hours for example have elements of drama, tragedy and comedy, the perfect ingredients for say, and episode of Heartbeat, but without the whodunit or an obvious plotline where Claude almost but not quite gets arrested.
The scene starts with a wintry day at work – five or six inches of snow have fallen back home and wife calls to advise me of this and that if I can’t get through she has arranged that I can stay with the in laws on the outskirts of the city rather than battle through 13 miles of snowbound roads with stupid people driving at 20 miles per hour because they are frightened of a little snow. I point out that I don’t have my pyjamas with me. She counterpoints that I don’t wear them at home. I suggest that I ought to have them whilst at the in laws and suggest she takes them to Preston for me. She declines saying that the roads are too bad. Huh- women.
Regardless of her doubting my driving God status I drive home without mishap anyway – the Black Knight Always Triumphs! So far so good, a little comedic light relief.
Now DRAMA! For no apparent reason, Thomas, 7 years, falls off his chair at the dinner table. Part contortionist, part Stan Laurel he somehow manages to get his bare foot under the chair as it falls with the edge of the back section (are you following this?) landing heavily across his foot, and incredibly at the same time manages to out his full bodyweight back onto the falling chair. After a quick check I was pretty certain nothing was broken, and as we get a new dining suite at Christmas I wasn’t too worried. But I wasn’t so sure about his foot, there are a lot of little bones in those little feet. So it was off for an evening of entertainment courtesy of the casualty department. In a new world record we were actually seen by a triage nurse within 5 minutes of arrival, thus the NHS trust was able to claim they had achieved targets. Almost four hours later the doctor examined him and declared the all clear, with just some severe bruising. So a 24 mile round trip through artic weather conditions for nothing. Thanks Thomas. And to cap it all I was almost defeated I getting my car into the garage, a lack of grip looked like forcing it to stay outside overnight, but some old carpet came to the rescue (a little trick granddad would have approved of) and the car was put to bed smug and warm.
And then the ungrateful bastard failed to start the next morning. Failed to start is an exaggeration actually. It failed to attempt to start the battery was as flat as a weak old Shandy, and the engine just gave that ominous dead click. Attaching my boost starter resulted in the engine turning slowly with an assortment of horrendous rattles which caused me some consternation. Please Gods, let the cam belt be okay – I only had it changed 6000 miles ago. I took off the oil filler cap to see if the engine was all turning over, and not just the bottom end – and promptly dropped the oil filler cap down the front of the engine behind the radiator and just out of reach on top of the under tray. “Hucking Fell” I cursed to myself. (this ought to be a moorland walk, but probably isn’t, I suspect it is a Spoonerism) So now I had a flat battery and no oil cap.
A quick search around the junk on my garage and a moment or two later a makeshift cap was fabricated out of an old seatbelt adjustment winder and some Duct tape. (Duct tape – an approved engineering solution and like the force in Star Wars – it has a light side, a dark side and holds the Universe together) Now for some jumps leads and a quick start off Jennys Honda. Done, engine started and oooeeer missus, warning light Bingo – a full line and then some, with error codes pinging off my Kiwi like there is no tomorrow (there may not be, who knows for sure) Then just as thing seemed to settle down the headlights started flashing and the radio was coming on and off all on it’s own. Had a rock n Roll song been on the radio I’d have been quite happy the car would have fixed itself in the style of Christine, but as it was some modern crap I knew there was something seriously wrong. Rather than face a breakdown on the road I decided to let the car idle a while to see what happened, and what happened within about 2 minutes is that it ran out of electricity all together and died.
At this point I realised I would not bee driving to work and sensibly phoned in to arrange time off. (The idea of ringing in sick didn’t even enter my head – I’m just too honest or stupid for that) I could have probably claimed to have been snowed in, there was snow outside after all, and technically speaking I couldn’t get my car through the snow, just that it wasn’t the depth of the snow that was the problem, just the car “failing to proceed.”
At nine I rang my local parts guy to price up a Battery (about £60) but having described what was wrong he suggested I bring the car in as he could check if it was the battery or the alternator at fault. For the first time ever I was praying it was just a battery problem – I had seen where the alternator was and didn’t relish the idea of trying to change it. A quick jump start after a couple of hours to oput some life in the battery and it was off to Hedon in daylight – no lights, no signalling no radio or heater – nothing to use up that precious electricity. I left it running and had the checks done only to get the worse news. The alternator was not alternating. Nothing for it but to head back home and get the local spanner monkey to fit a new one.
3 miles short of the garage disaster and drama struck again as I ran out of electricity. Fortunately, this car has Mayday cover as it is the car used for the caravan towing duties, and Willinghams were dispatched for a free recovery. Despite being told I had run out of electrickery they sent a service van instead of a tow truck, as they thought a jump start would get me going again. No such luck, but a battery pack connected with a “heath Robinson” cable through the cigarette lighter (and held together with duct tape!) The car was dropped off at the garage and I walked the last ¾ mile or so home to find no tyre tracks leaving Jenny’s side of the garage. Odd, she should have gone to work by then. Maybe the school had closed due to the weather. So in I went, made a pot of tea for her and took it up to her office to surprise her. Well surprise to me – she wasn’t home. Surely she hadn’t had a problem with her car? And the roads weren’t that bad – aha – I guessed she had been cancelled from work due to the schools closing, and had gone to our school to collect the kids as that one was closing too. After waiting a few minuites I realised that couldn’t be the case either – she’d be back by now. After several failed efforts I finally got her on her mobile – at work. Why had she walked – the main roads were clear, and she doesn’t normally relish a walk more than a mile or so – it’s about 4 down to Burstwick, and that’s cross country in thick snow. Well it seems she believed I had taken her car, and as I wasn’t back and tiem was creeping on she had walked. She hadn’t even checked the garage!
On the positive side, as my car remains at Boyes Lane my side of the garage is empty tonight so at least I have somewhere to sleep.
Friday, 12 November 2010
Saving water - How exactly?
I recently received a pack fromt he local water supplier which claims will help me save water. This is a good thing. Reduce, reuse, recycle, right?
I already have those toilets with the dual flush system, a short flush for when you've just had a pee and a longer flush when you've doen soemthign more solid. I can also understand how a restricter reducers the flow in the shower thus using less water.
But there were a couple of items that I just can't get to grips with. One is a sort of gel pack that goes in the toilet systern to take up space which would otherwise be filled with water, thus reducing the amount of water that is flushed. Great except that I already have modern low level systerns with almost no water in them anyway. If I stick one of these little baggies in there'll be nothing left to flush with and it'll jam the operating mechanism. I might as well just spit in the pan instead.
Next is a gizmo that goes in the end of the tap. This sort of aerates the water, which is great as it makes ordinary drinks taste fizzy, albeit for a very short while. By introducing air into the water this reduces the volume of water flowing through the tap, thus saving water. Huh? How does that workl? If I have a 2 litre kettle to fill I need 2 litres of water. Adding air to it just means it takes me longer to fill the bloody kettle. This does not save water it just means it takes longer to fill the kettl;e.
Even more frustrating is the energy saving boiler I fitted. I used to have a tank full of hot (or warm at least) water available on demand. Now I have a combi boiler which theoretically gives me hot water on demand - except you have to run the tap for about three minutes before it gets warm - or even longer now that the air has been introduced into the equation. So, by trying to save water I am wasting water - and time. If this is green something has gone wrong somewhere.
What the water company should have provided me, free of charge, is a solar water heater, so that the water going to the boiler is preheated thus eliminating the waste water, AND reducing the fossil fuel required to heat it up - a solar heater raisng it by only a few degrees would make a huge difference to the fuel bill.
So get your act together Yorkshire water.
I already have those toilets with the dual flush system, a short flush for when you've just had a pee and a longer flush when you've doen soemthign more solid. I can also understand how a restricter reducers the flow in the shower thus using less water.
But there were a couple of items that I just can't get to grips with. One is a sort of gel pack that goes in the toilet systern to take up space which would otherwise be filled with water, thus reducing the amount of water that is flushed. Great except that I already have modern low level systerns with almost no water in them anyway. If I stick one of these little baggies in there'll be nothing left to flush with and it'll jam the operating mechanism. I might as well just spit in the pan instead.
Next is a gizmo that goes in the end of the tap. This sort of aerates the water, which is great as it makes ordinary drinks taste fizzy, albeit for a very short while. By introducing air into the water this reduces the volume of water flowing through the tap, thus saving water. Huh? How does that workl? If I have a 2 litre kettle to fill I need 2 litres of water. Adding air to it just means it takes me longer to fill the bloody kettle. This does not save water it just means it takes longer to fill the kettl;e.
Even more frustrating is the energy saving boiler I fitted. I used to have a tank full of hot (or warm at least) water available on demand. Now I have a combi boiler which theoretically gives me hot water on demand - except you have to run the tap for about three minutes before it gets warm - or even longer now that the air has been introduced into the equation. So, by trying to save water I am wasting water - and time. If this is green something has gone wrong somewhere.
What the water company should have provided me, free of charge, is a solar water heater, so that the water going to the boiler is preheated thus eliminating the waste water, AND reducing the fossil fuel required to heat it up - a solar heater raisng it by only a few degrees would make a huge difference to the fuel bill.
So get your act together Yorkshire water.
Sunday, 7 November 2010
I don't understand my wife
Yes, the above is true. Rather than my wife doesn't undertstand me, I have coem to accept that the reverse is true. I am well known for my plain speaking. I call a spade a spade. Some call it a manual digging implement. I call it a spade. A black man is a black man. He is not coloured, nor is he a native African - particularly if it turns out he was born in Romford. I strive to make my meaning clear. And simple.
This makes it difficult living with a woman, my wife in particular, because although she speaks English she uses codes all the time. Thsi would not present a problem if I understood the code, as I speak in various coides all day at work, but her code is different, and the meaning changes from one day to another. Allow me to erudicate further;
An example. If a man were to ask "What do you have planned for Friday?" this woudl be a simple social enquiry as to what you have planned for Friday. An answer would be given, such as "I thought we might have a barbeque and maybe watch a DVD afterwards." If this conversation was between two men, the topic would then be closed. Both would understand that a barbeque woudl happen, followed by a DVD. Not so with women. If a woman asks "What do you have planned for Friday?" this means "I have planned something for Friday so whatever you thought you were doing cancel it." The topic is not open for discusssion - the decision has been made. So whatever answer you give is irrelevent, because you will then be told what you will be doing. As in, "Oh, well I thought we could go out for a meal and meet with X and Y afterwards" (X being her best friend and Y being her best friends boyfriend/partner, who according to her logic you will get on with like a house on fire, even though he/she is duller than a week in Putney)
At least in that situation you are told what will be occuring. Much more cryptic is the opening gambit "I need to go shopping tommorow." Setting aside the whole issue of want and need which women are incapable of differentiating, this is simply a statement. She wants to go shopping, and the time she wants to go shopping is tommorow. It is not that simple though. In her world the message is clear. She wants to go shopping, with you, you will drive and carry all the bags, and the credit card which will be used will be yours. But it's not that simple either, because that's what it meant last week. This week it means she wants to go shopping with her friends, and that you are required to stay home and look after the kids. Even if she choses to let slip some further information it will be implied, and disguised as a question. "What time do the shops open on Sundays?" Aha, I can help with that one, with my in depth man-knowledge of Sunday trading hours. 10 until 4. But this in her mind means that I have now agreed to dedicate the whole of that period from 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. to shopping (or looking after the kids) My interpretation however is that at some point during that six hour period she will wish to visit one or more shops. I await further information but none comes.
If a man were deleivring this information he would say simply and in a straightforward manner - "I'm going to the shops tommorow, at ten o'clock. You can come if you like, bring the kids with us. I'll drive." Actually no he wouldn't because a) he would take it as read that she would expect him to drive, and b) unless he was a gay man he wouldn't volunteer to go to the shops, but the theory stands.
In short I think what I'm trying to say is that women need to speak more clearly and tell us what they want. My car needs washing is a statement. I understand the car is dirty. I do not know if you intend to clean it, if you want me to do it, if you are just making conversation or if you want to buy a new one. "Will you wash my car?" is five simply words and will achieve the result you are looking for. I know what is required of me. No need for please or thank you, just say what you want and it will happen. Just don't be so bloody English about it.
This makes it difficult living with a woman, my wife in particular, because although she speaks English she uses codes all the time. Thsi would not present a problem if I understood the code, as I speak in various coides all day at work, but her code is different, and the meaning changes from one day to another. Allow me to erudicate further;
An example. If a man were to ask "What do you have planned for Friday?" this woudl be a simple social enquiry as to what you have planned for Friday. An answer would be given, such as "I thought we might have a barbeque and maybe watch a DVD afterwards." If this conversation was between two men, the topic would then be closed. Both would understand that a barbeque woudl happen, followed by a DVD. Not so with women. If a woman asks "What do you have planned for Friday?" this means "I have planned something for Friday so whatever you thought you were doing cancel it." The topic is not open for discusssion - the decision has been made. So whatever answer you give is irrelevent, because you will then be told what you will be doing. As in, "Oh, well I thought we could go out for a meal and meet with X and Y afterwards" (X being her best friend and Y being her best friends boyfriend/partner, who according to her logic you will get on with like a house on fire, even though he/she is duller than a week in Putney)
At least in that situation you are told what will be occuring. Much more cryptic is the opening gambit "I need to go shopping tommorow." Setting aside the whole issue of want and need which women are incapable of differentiating, this is simply a statement. She wants to go shopping, and the time she wants to go shopping is tommorow. It is not that simple though. In her world the message is clear. She wants to go shopping, with you, you will drive and carry all the bags, and the credit card which will be used will be yours. But it's not that simple either, because that's what it meant last week. This week it means she wants to go shopping with her friends, and that you are required to stay home and look after the kids. Even if she choses to let slip some further information it will be implied, and disguised as a question. "What time do the shops open on Sundays?" Aha, I can help with that one, with my in depth man-knowledge of Sunday trading hours. 10 until 4. But this in her mind means that I have now agreed to dedicate the whole of that period from 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. to shopping (or looking after the kids) My interpretation however is that at some point during that six hour period she will wish to visit one or more shops. I await further information but none comes.
If a man were deleivring this information he would say simply and in a straightforward manner - "I'm going to the shops tommorow, at ten o'clock. You can come if you like, bring the kids with us. I'll drive." Actually no he wouldn't because a) he would take it as read that she would expect him to drive, and b) unless he was a gay man he wouldn't volunteer to go to the shops, but the theory stands.
In short I think what I'm trying to say is that women need to speak more clearly and tell us what they want. My car needs washing is a statement. I understand the car is dirty. I do not know if you intend to clean it, if you want me to do it, if you are just making conversation or if you want to buy a new one. "Will you wash my car?" is five simply words and will achieve the result you are looking for. I know what is required of me. No need for please or thank you, just say what you want and it will happen. Just don't be so bloody English about it.
Wednesday, 20 October 2010
It's been a funny sort of day.
"It's been a funny sort of day." - Arkwright often used to close his shop thinking that very thought in the voice over as he closed the shop on the much loved classic BBC comedy "Open All Hours." Well it also sums up my day today.
Allow me to explain - if I can.
At work I drive a Volvo V70. These are wonderful cars, very powerful with the T5 engine, or even in D5 diesel form, and I get to drive both. The can carry a huge amount of gear, except of course anything in a cup, as Volvo unlike every other major manufacturer do not fit cup holders. Or an ash tray. Or a cigarette lighter. This is presumably because Volvo drivers are at peace with the world, and do not approve of stimulants like coffee or tobacco to improve their driving performance.
Such is the capriciousness of the Volvo that it can hide an untold quantity of Biro's. Should you inadvertently drop one whilst attempting to, for instance, balance a note pad on the steering wheel whilst temporarily held at a red traffic light, and attempt to write something down, it will almost always without fail fall into the gap between the seat and the centre console. And from there into a black hole, a Volvo designed storage facility which will keep it safe in perpetuity. I would venture so far as to say you will almost certainly never see it again, the likelihood of finding it being inversely proportional to the value of the Biro or pen you dropped. Drop a cheap Biro and you may find it after several minutes searching ion hands and knees and with much movement of the seat fore and aft to shake it from the secret hiding place in which it becomes lodged. Drop a fountain pen which is worth £300 and was passed down to you by your great grandfather and you will never ever see it again.
So when I dropped my Biro under said circumstances I reached down immediately before it had chance to drop into the very bowels of the Volvo. Big Mistake. Remember the monkey with the jar of nuts? Well eventually the monkey dropped the nuts and was able to withdraw his hand from the jar. Or, in the case of one or two more aggressive and/or forward thinking monkeys, they smashed the glass jar. Well ..... even letting go of the Biro did not release the death grip the Volvo suddenly took on my arm. Trapped by my watch strap, unable to take off the handbrake, or change gear i was stuck as the traffic lights changed to green, then amber, then red, and back through a second cycle, with a line of traffic behind growing increasingly impatient with the man in the Volvo failing to drive away. This was Terry and June humour at it's very best. Basil Fawlty would have milked this situation so much he could have started a dairy.
After several panicked minutes of struggle I gave up and managed to select first gear and release the handbrake right handed, then limp into the kerbside. Risking trapping my right hand too, and with fears of having the Volvo cut apart by the fire brigade to release me, I was able to release my watch strap, fortunately on a Velcro quick release, then work the seat back and forth to painfully extract my arm. Reddened both in the arm and the face I was otherwise uninjured. But what a wonderful design fault this is. Perhaps scrap yard owners run a sideline selling secondhand Biro's extracted from Volvo's at end of life, when they eventually and brutally remove the seats to find the stash of pens hidden in the secret storage area beneath.
Later that day, finding myself lacking a packed lunch, which I had accidentally left at home, I headed for ASDA in search of a ready cooked chicken. The man in front in the queue, of Eastern European Extraction, was obviously a very recent migrant, and spoke little if any English. He pointed at the chicken legs, stuck up four fingers, and by the international medium of grunting, was then offered a buy 5 for £2 deal by the equally inarticulate shop assistant. The entire deal was conducted with no spoken word at all. I felt somewhat obliged to try the same approach, but my intended purchase being half a Garlic chicken I floundered somewhat. I mean, half is easy, with a sawing motion, with a sort of parting of hands, chicken is easily accomplished with the flapping motion of elbows, but just what is the international sign language for Garlic? I went with holding my nose then flapping a hand exuberantly in front of my face, but I'm not sure if she thought I'd just farted or what. Charades was never like this. I'm just glad I didn't want a Cumberland sausage.
Like I said, it's been a funny sort of day.
Allow me to explain - if I can.
At work I drive a Volvo V70. These are wonderful cars, very powerful with the T5 engine, or even in D5 diesel form, and I get to drive both. The can carry a huge amount of gear, except of course anything in a cup, as Volvo unlike every other major manufacturer do not fit cup holders. Or an ash tray. Or a cigarette lighter. This is presumably because Volvo drivers are at peace with the world, and do not approve of stimulants like coffee or tobacco to improve their driving performance.
Such is the capriciousness of the Volvo that it can hide an untold quantity of Biro's. Should you inadvertently drop one whilst attempting to, for instance, balance a note pad on the steering wheel whilst temporarily held at a red traffic light, and attempt to write something down, it will almost always without fail fall into the gap between the seat and the centre console. And from there into a black hole, a Volvo designed storage facility which will keep it safe in perpetuity. I would venture so far as to say you will almost certainly never see it again, the likelihood of finding it being inversely proportional to the value of the Biro or pen you dropped. Drop a cheap Biro and you may find it after several minutes searching ion hands and knees and with much movement of the seat fore and aft to shake it from the secret hiding place in which it becomes lodged. Drop a fountain pen which is worth £300 and was passed down to you by your great grandfather and you will never ever see it again.
So when I dropped my Biro under said circumstances I reached down immediately before it had chance to drop into the very bowels of the Volvo. Big Mistake. Remember the monkey with the jar of nuts? Well eventually the monkey dropped the nuts and was able to withdraw his hand from the jar. Or, in the case of one or two more aggressive and/or forward thinking monkeys, they smashed the glass jar. Well ..... even letting go of the Biro did not release the death grip the Volvo suddenly took on my arm. Trapped by my watch strap, unable to take off the handbrake, or change gear i was stuck as the traffic lights changed to green, then amber, then red, and back through a second cycle, with a line of traffic behind growing increasingly impatient with the man in the Volvo failing to drive away. This was Terry and June humour at it's very best. Basil Fawlty would have milked this situation so much he could have started a dairy.
After several panicked minutes of struggle I gave up and managed to select first gear and release the handbrake right handed, then limp into the kerbside. Risking trapping my right hand too, and with fears of having the Volvo cut apart by the fire brigade to release me, I was able to release my watch strap, fortunately on a Velcro quick release, then work the seat back and forth to painfully extract my arm. Reddened both in the arm and the face I was otherwise uninjured. But what a wonderful design fault this is. Perhaps scrap yard owners run a sideline selling secondhand Biro's extracted from Volvo's at end of life, when they eventually and brutally remove the seats to find the stash of pens hidden in the secret storage area beneath.
Later that day, finding myself lacking a packed lunch, which I had accidentally left at home, I headed for ASDA in search of a ready cooked chicken. The man in front in the queue, of Eastern European Extraction, was obviously a very recent migrant, and spoke little if any English. He pointed at the chicken legs, stuck up four fingers, and by the international medium of grunting, was then offered a buy 5 for £2 deal by the equally inarticulate shop assistant. The entire deal was conducted with no spoken word at all. I felt somewhat obliged to try the same approach, but my intended purchase being half a Garlic chicken I floundered somewhat. I mean, half is easy, with a sawing motion, with a sort of parting of hands, chicken is easily accomplished with the flapping motion of elbows, but just what is the international sign language for Garlic? I went with holding my nose then flapping a hand exuberantly in front of my face, but I'm not sure if she thought I'd just farted or what. Charades was never like this. I'm just glad I didn't want a Cumberland sausage.
Like I said, it's been a funny sort of day.
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